jar of beer.
He licked the thick, slightly gritty foam from his lips. “Did you know him well, sir?”
“Evidently not as well as I believed.” Mai, who had thrown aside formality after Antef had gone, grinned like a boy caught with his fingers in a honey jar. “He discovered I like olives, the ripe black ones cured in brine. Each time he imported horses, he brought several jars to me.” He reached for his beer jar, hesitated. “You didn’t happen to find any on board, did you?”
“No, sir,” Karoya said, with a hint of a smile. He occupied a stool beside Bak. “I’ll have my men look. If they see them, we’ll bring them to you.”
“I’d be most appreciative.” Mai drank again and rested the jar between his thighs, all hint of humor vanishing. “I thought Maruwa unconcerned with the politics of his home land, but perhaps I erred.”
“He never spoke of such things?” Bak asked.
“Never.” Mai looked out at the harbor, his expression sad.
“I’ve heard from other men who’ve traveled to that far-off land that its politics are always volatile, with bad blood among various factions, some loyal to the past king, some to the present king, and some agitating for a new king. As a re sult, few men hold the throne for long, and when they’re un seated, all who share their power are also deposed.” He laughed harshly. “If they’re lucky. Many are slain and their families with them, so they say.”
Karoya shuddered. “A cruel, harsh land, sir.”
A long silence ensued while the three men thanked the gods that they lived in a land where murder was an offense to the lady Maat and, while not unheard of at the highest levels of power, was not as common as in less enlightened lands.
“The horses will have to be moved from the garrison to the royal stables,” Bak said. “I’ll speak with Troop Captain
Nebwa, and he’ll see the task completed.”
“Good,” Mai said, nodding approval. His eyes darted to ward Karoya. “Maruwa was slain here at the harbor, Lieu tenant, so his death falls under your jurisdiction. You must do all you can to snare the slayer.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
The harbormaster’s eyes slid toward Bak. “How long will you remain in Waset, Lieutenant?”
“We’ll not sail until the Opet festival ends.”
“I know I’ve no business to ask before gaining the ap proval of your commandant, but would you be willing to as sist Karoya, should he need your help?”
“I’d be glad to, sir.”
Later, as Bak walked along the waterfront after bidding good-bye to Mai and Karoya, he admitted to himself how disappointed he was that another man held the responsibility for tracking down and snaring the one who had slain the Hit tite merchant. He knew he would be at a disadvantage in searching for a killer in an alien community in a city he no longer knew well, but the challenge tempted.
Chapter Two
The processional way was lined with men, women and chil dren who had come from near and far to participate in the
Beautiful Feast of Opet. This, the grandest of the many fes tivals held throughout the year, celebrated their dual sover eigns’ renewal as the divine offspring of the lord Amon.
They were awaiting the initial procession of the festival, soon to make its way from Ipet-isut, the great northern man sion of the lord Amon, to the smaller southern mansion of
Ipet-resyt. The long parade of gods, royalty, priests, and dig nitaries offered the best opportunity through the eleven-day festival not only of adoring at close hand the lord Amon, his spouse the lady Mut, and their son the lord Khonsu, but of seeing the most lofty individuals in the land of Kemet.
The muted sounds of night had been torn asunder by the marching of the soldiers who had appeared at daybreak to spread out along the route. The soft sporadic laughter of a few half-awake individuals seeking the ideal spot from which to view the procession had become a roar of excite ment. Now, as the lord Khepre, the rising sun, attained his second hour in the morning sky, the few had swelled to many. The multitude of people jostled for position along the broad, slightly raised causeway, which was paved with crushed white limestone. Clad in all their finery, whether the rough linen of the poor or the most delicate of fabrics worn by the nobility, and wearing their most elegant jewelry, they stood shoulder to shoulder, all equally intent on sharing this most wondrous of occasions with the greatest of gods, his divine spouse and son and his two earthly children.
Acrobats and musicians performed, entertainers sang and danced, among temporary booths erected along the pro cessional way on ground still damp from the ebbing flood.
Hawkers walked back and forth, calling out their wares: dried meat and fish, fruits and vegetables, sweet cakes, beer and water, perfumes, oil for rubbing on the skin, flowers for the hair or to throw in the path of the gods, trinkets to re member the day, and amulets for protection. The smells of cooked meats, perfumes and flowers, and fresh bread vied with the odor of manure dropped by chariot horses held by grooms in a nearby palm grove, awaiting the time when, led by their noble masters, they would join the procession.
While soldiers held the crowd off the causeway, police walked among the spectators, searching out thieves and troublemakers, returning lost children to their parents, haul ing off beggars and men besotted by too much beer.
The hot breath of the lord Khepre and the receding flood waters, which lingered in immense low-lying natural basins all across the valley floor, filled the air with an uncomfortable heat and dampness. Not the slightest breeze stirred. Sweat col lected beneath broad collars and belts, wilted the ringlets on wigs and naturally curled hair, and made unsightly splotches on dresses and kilts. Hawkers gained more in a day than in a month, trading sweet- smelling flowers and perfume to over power the stench of sweat, water and beer to ward off thirst.
The mood of the spectators was light, forgiving, expec tant. All looked forward, each in his own way, to eleven days of piety and merrymaking.
“Lieutenant Bak.” Amonked, Storekeeper of Amon and cousin to Maatkare Hatshepsut, laid a congenial hand on
Bak’s shoulder and looked with approval at the company of
Medjays standing beside the barque sanctuary of the lord Amon. “You’ve a fine-looking unit of men, a credit to the land of Kemet.”
Bak smiled with pleasure. “I wish to thank you, sir, for ar ranging for us to participate in today’s activities. Never would I have expected such a splendid position along the processional way.”
The sanctuary, raised on a platform above the earth on which it sat, was long and narrow. A square-pillared portico open on three sides stood in front of a small enclosed chapel.
When the procession reached this point, the barque of the lord Amon would be placed upon the stone plinth inside the portico, where it would be visible to all who stood nearby.
This was the first of eight similar way stations where the di vine triad would rest on their daylong journey from Ipet-isut to Ipet-resyt.
The Medjays, though relaxed while they awaited their gods, stood tall and straight and proud. They wore their best white kilts and held black cowhide shields so well brushed they glistened. Spearpoints, the bronze pendants hanging from their necks, the wide bronze bands that formed their armlets and anklets were polished to a high sheen.
Amonked gave an unassuming smile. “If a man has a bit of influence and can use it for a good cause, why shouldn’t he?”
He was rather plump, of medium height, and his age somewhere in the mid-thirties, but he looked older. He wore an ankle-length kilt made of fine linen, an elegant broad beaded collar, and matching bracelets. The short wig cover ing his thinning hair gleamed in the sunlight, testifying to the fact that it was made of real human hair.
“Shouldn’t you be in the mansion of the lord Amon, sir?” asked Sergeant Pashenuro. “Are you not to be a part of the procession?” The short, broad sergeant, second among the
Medjays to Imsiba, had come to know Amonked several months earlier.
